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Easiest Job Ever
It's late in the newest 'home base' of the Delgard household, but bodies aren't sleeping. While Gabi sits on bland colored sheets, staring out the window of her new, bland-colored room, Ambrosia is tucked away in the small, communal nest of a couple chairs, sofa, and little desk that make up the apartment's main space. Really, the only redeemable quality she can find with the base housing is the comm terminal installed in the wall between fresher and little cooker units. As such, it's that last link to her old life, profession, that she watches now. Waiting, hoping, for anything. Because if she's kept busy enough, she won't be troubled by sleep. A sharp beep of an incoming signal sounds from the unit and upon being accepted, the rather poor quality transmission looks to be of an amazonian rattataki. The long coat and shoulder-mounted monkey-lizard certainly look familiar enough, but the signal is shakey at best. "Ambassador Del-gard!" the coarse voice crackles with static, but isn't too tricky to make out. "As I live and breathe, when the Caspians sent your embassy up in flames I drank a toast to your passing! /Now/ what I am going to do?" hands emerging from the small of her back to be held open in an asking gesture. Upon hearing the 'beep', Ambrosia smiles, faintly triumphant, and rather than getting up to walk over to the terminal, she gives the floor a shove with one bare foot and sends the chair rolling in its direction. A finger's touch answers. "Drink a toast to my emergence from the ashes," she suggests, squinting to steel her sensitive eyes against the harsh flickers of muted color. "And another to our efforts at returning the favor done unto me. How goes business, Captain? I believe the last we spoke, you were enjoying the luxuries Pallando's estate had to offer." "An /excellent/ suggestion!" Vane replies with a coarse chortle, turning to her right she makes the intergalactic gesture for 'drinkies' to someone far out of the projector's field of view. "You know, you should've let me come in with my guns..." the Rattataki chides, apparently that was still a sore point. "...armed mobs only understand /one/ thing, a much bigger and better armed mob and there're few in the galaxy larger or more heavily armed than mine!" her arms thrown wide in a proud display, when they return to the projection, one has found a mug of some description. "Which brings me to my call. You want me and my men to stop stealing the Empire's little treats, now that they're being carried on Authority ships. Is that right?" "They pay me *not* to use violence, Captain," Ambrosia reminds with a small, possibly wistful sigh, "although that did not stop me from blasting a few holes into the bucketheads when they broke through my door. But yes, that is correct. I'd rather allow these 'treats' to go by peacefully on smaller class, less menacing ships, than give them a reason to carry heavier fire power and potentially tip the scales /against/ our navy during these ongoing squirmishes." Crossing her right ankle over left knee, she leans back in her seat and adjusts her robe accordingly, keeping all important bits under heavier wraps than the flimsier nightwear may conceal. "You understand our reasoning?" Vane has no such compunctions about 'letting it all hang out' as her choice in corset-and-low-cut-vest wardrobe suggests. "I do, I do. The trouble is that you're asking pirates...to, well.../not/ be pirates." she leans forward, the view afforded is volumous even if holo-blue and grainy. "You have the right idea, offering to buy us off. That is something I can sell to my crew, but thirty-thousand credits..." she sucks a breath through gritted teeth, shaking her head remorsefully. "Its just not enough. A fine price, for me alone. Yes? But, split two hundred ways, you begin to see the problem? Why, that's two hundred..." someone shouts from off-display, Vane leaning out of frame in its direction. "..One hundred and fifty.." she corrects herself. "..credits a head. I could sell...three hundred. Double, for sitting in port and doing nothing. Its a pay cut, but nobody need risk life and limb for it. And the Republic can afford it, surely?" Ambrosia blinks, tiredly. "I'm asking you only to not be pirates in the /Caspian/ system. What you do elsewhere isn't of import." Running a hand through her hair and pausing to scratch the back of her neck, she yawns. "Let me present from this angle: any raids performed on transports containing humanitarian supplies will delay and possibly prevent the Caspian residents from receiving essential stuffs, which is extremely detrimental to an already suffering economy and populace under the extent of oppression the Empire has just begun to administer. In other words: you'd be making it worse, for them and for us. And right now, Captain, I've a mental list of persons who have made life 'worse' for me and my little girl, and I intend to pay them something /less/ delightful than cred." Her upturned, left palm representing the less desirable option wavers and twitches as though operated by a different brain from the rest of her. "I can offer you 50,000. High command isn't aware we're even holding this conversation, as I remain 'suspect', I guess you could say, still so freshly removed from Imperial custody. The Republic is struggling enough with resources trying to hold its own against the Imperial fleet. *I* am struggling with resources trying to rebuild a home and a life after both were taken from me...one fortunately revived. Being as *I* was the one to initially seek your talents in evading the blockade, it is *I* who am now thanking you for services rendered, but requesting a pause in 'business' dealings on Caspia's side of the fence for a little while. I'd offer to toast to it, but I'm afraid that my liqour cache was sent into the abyss along with all other belongings. Tragic, really." Vane's empty hand finds her hip, the blaster strapped to her thigh just below peaking from beneath her coat as its brushed back with the gesture. Force of habit perhaps to keep your shooting hand free. She laughs, heartily and swirls whatever's in her cup about for a moment thoughtfully. "You have a big pair of farium ones, Ambassador. I /like/ that about you. But, really, if your own government doesn't trust you, does it deserve your on-going service? My line of work is rather profitable, you know and your list of contacts..." she sips at her drink. "...well, lets just say there're many ways one can retire. I plan to do it on a mountain of credits so large than when I die, they will require class-five labour droids to find the body, eh." She stares into the mug. Half full, perhaps. "Very well, fifty thousand credits and we'll avoid Caspian space, for now. How long do you need me to stay away? Warzones are always good for business, you know." She smiles. "Salvage." she is OBVIOUSLY not talking about salvage. "I hate flying," Ambrosia declines the alternative employment opportunity rather bluntly. "I know decks can benefit from a little spit shine, but I'm afraid my gut'll go above and beyond what's required or desired." Smirking, she stops her rocking and leans forward again, offering a slighter view of goods in exchange. "I'm not entirely certain how long this charade of good will from Thel and friends is going to last. From what I understand, Direx would profit a great deal from Caspian dealings for years to come, whether or not the Empire conquers all. Let's leave them be for a month or so, give them time to get settled into shipping routine and develop a sense of security. That'll give our boys and girls a chance to contend with the Imperial fleet a bit more personally. And, if they ever develop a sense of confidence, perhaps the CDU will actually join in on its own defense." Another sigh. "Frankly, a more sincere answer is: I don't know. Give me a few weeks, and I'll be in touch with a better sense of time frame, hmm?" Vane's not shy about inspecting the aforementioned goods. Her gaze drops, a half-smile and an appreciative bob of her head to one side preceeds returning to the Ambassador's eyes. "That's quite an engagement, I won't promise anything that long. Once the two sides come to blows, there's too much profit to be made to ignore it. But your aid shipments pale in comparisson to /that/, so they'll be safe either way." she tilts her head for a moment. "Should make the Authority reimburse you. Its their contracts you're protecting, you keep trying to be everyone's friend they're going to keep flipping you over and..." what follows isn't really suitably for Gabi's ears. She's probably heard it all before, on her mother's bad days. Gabi doesn't move from her nest beneath the blankets, humming softly while watching the thin beams of light from vehicles gliding by. "I'm well conditioned against --@&%#--," Ambrosia retorts, unsmiling. "I've given up on friendships. Right now, I'm just trying to create some damage control and minimize losses that will trickle down to me. A little civility can still go a long way towards achieving this. I hope." Judging from her expression, the ambassador is considering the futility of that hope. "Give me a number I can send payment to. And, on a less business related note, I'm curious as to where it is you're hanging your hat, these days. Seems to me I've earned a bit of vacation time. Perhaps we'll one day toast together, in person." She raises an imaginary glass and stands. "Oh, you know us pirates. Any berth that'll have us, or can't get /rid/ of us!" Vane chortles good naturedly, raising her own drink in salute. "We get around." No double entendre here. No siree. "You let me know when you're feeling like a little vacation and i'll let you know where we can pick you up..." she leans forward, keying something into the terminal at her end. "Account data's transmitted. Good health to you, Republic!" "And to you, Captain of lofty dreams," Ambrosia completes the transaction, tinkering for a moment with her datapad, etc. "Enjoy some vacation before your salvaging. If you should come across any decent bits of protocol droid...I may be interested in haggling a price. My poor creation went the way of the rest of my embassy staff. In fact, I imagine 'she' went multiple ways." There's *almost* some sadness readable. Perhaps just a tinge. "Transfer Complete" her little machine informs, and she lifts a hand of farewell. "A pleasure as always."